Tormentor Mine(63)
That’s it, come on. Ignoring the anxiety constricting my throat, I shimmy my hips a little more. I can’t bring myself to actually turn around and embrace him, but maybe with a little encouragement, his control will break, and he’ll reach for me. I won’t object; I won’t do anything to stop him. I’ll let him fuck me, maybe even pretend to enjoy it a little, so I don’t pose a challenge in that respect. I’ll just lie there and take it, and then it will all be over.
I’ll be a willing but boring lay, and he’ll get tired of me.
That’s the plan, at least, but as I continue moving, I realize some of my exhaustion is fading, only to be replaced by a warm, liquid feeling that originates deep in my core. With the darkness veiling everything, it’s easy to pretend that none of this is real, that I’m having another one of those twisted dreams.
“Sara, ptichka…” His hoarse whisper sounds strained. “If you want to go to sleep, you might want to stop moving.”
I still for a second, then slowly and deliberately shift against him again. “What if…” I lick my dry lips. “What if I don’t want to go to sleep?”
Peter’s body turns to stone behind me, his arm tightening across my ribcage. For a brief, irrational moment, I fear that he might refuse, that despite all indications, he doesn’t really want me, but then I find myself flipped onto my back, his heavy weight pressing me down as the bedside lamp comes on.
I blink, momentarily blinded by the light, and as his face comes into focus, I see that his gray eyes are narrowed, his jaw clenched tight as he holds himself up with one elbow. He looks furious, and for one horrible second, I wonder if I misinterpreted it all—if I made a huge error.
“Are you playing games with me, Sara?” His voice is low and hard, his accent stronger than usual as he captures my wrists and pins them to the pillow above my head with one big hand. “Trying to see how far you can push me?”
I stare up at him, a dark tingle crawling over my skin. This is so much like my dreams it’s uncanny. And at the same time, it’s different. My drug-fogged memory had painted him in harsh, cruel strokes, more monster than man, but that was wrong. There’s nothing monstrous about the lethally beautiful face gazing down at me. The dreams had underestimated the potency of his magnetic appeal, omitting the sensuous softness of his lips, the strong, noble line of his nose, the way his thick dark eyebrows pull together over those intense metallic eyes… He’s gorgeous, this terrifying stalker of mine, and as I lie there, pinned under his hard, warm body, I feel the dark tingle intensify, turning into something dangerous and forbidden. My nipples tighten, and a wave of heat rolls through me, my inner muscles clenching on a surge of aching need.
I don’t want this man. I can’t want him. Yet even as I tell myself this, I know it’s a lie, a falsehood born of wishful thinking. Whatever it is that draws him to me works both ways, the pull of connection between us as strong as it is irrational. I do want him. More than that, I need him. My body doesn’t care that he just killed two people in front of me, that I despise him with all my being. His touch doesn’t repulse me; it arouses me, my desire stoked by the intimacy he’s forced on me over the last few days and the twisted pleasure I’ve known in his embrace.
By the unnatural, perverse tenderness that has no place in our violent relationship.
He’s still waiting for my response, his eyes narrowed, and I know I can back out of this, pretend it was a big misunderstanding. But if I do, he’ll continue stalking me, undermining my resistance day by day until I cave, and in the meantime, everyone around me will be in danger.
“No games,” I whisper into the tense silence. “The condoms are in the nightstand drawer.”
He inhales, his fingers tightening around my wrists, and I see the exact moment he processes what I’m saying. His nostrils flare and his pupils dilate, the look of fury on his face transforming into one of dark, unbridled hunger. Reaching into the drawer with his free hand, he pulls out a foil packet, rips it open with his teeth, and rolls the condom onto his large, jutting cock.
My heartbeat jumps, anxiety tightening my ribcage, but it’s too late.
Lowering his head, Peter captures my lips with his.
31
Sara
* * *
I don’t know why, but I never expected him to kiss me, to place his mouth on mine and feast on me as though he’s starving. Because that’s what it feels like: as if he’s consuming me, taking in my essence, my very being. His lips and tongue ravage my mouth, devouring me, taking the air right out of my lungs. His free hand burrows into my hair, holding me still for the voracious kiss, and it’s all I can do not to melt into the sheets. Because he doesn’t just take; he gives. He gives so much pleasure I’m overwhelmed by it, overtaken by his taste and scent and feel.